


Narcissist

by DoctorPea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorPea/pseuds/DoctorPea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark thinks about Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissist

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely and utterly fictional.

How to make the best of an evening on your own when there's nothing urgent that needs doing and nothing decent on the telly: have a wank.

With Mark’s busy schedule, a nice, long, self-indulgent wank seemed like a decadent luxury. Especially like this, sprawled out on the bed with his shirt unbuttoned and his cock just starting to get hard under his idly rubbing fingers. With a little sigh, he undid the buttons of his jeans one by one. He couldn't wait to get out of the bloody thing; it was brand new, and rather indecently tight in certain places. The rough friction of the denim sliding over the soft skin of the inside of his thighs made him shudder. This was going to be rather good, he thought.

When he had slipped out of the rest of his clothes, Mark lay back down on the bed, and ran his fingers gently and teasingly over his chest and abdomen, occasionally changing the angle so that his nails would scratch lightly over his sensitised skin. A pleasant shiver ran through him every time he touched one of his nipples, and eventually he gave in. He drew the fingers of one hand into his mouth and liberally sucked and licked at them, running his tongue all over them, then reached down to stroke and pinch at his nipples.

To his surprise, none of the usual mental images had so far entered his head - Ian on all fours, letting him fuck his face with abandon, or pushing him into the mattress and shagging him within an inch of his life, or tying him to the bed and spanking him until he was begging to be allowed to come. Instead, and somewhat confusingly, he had in his mind the very clear visual of a silver pocket watch tucked neatly into the pocket of a finely tailored waistcoat.

Interesting, Mark thought. It wasn't something that usually did it for him, not on a sexual level; but why the hell not. If his brain decided to get off on good tailoring, so be it. He began to lightly stroke his cock, letting his mind wander. Soon, however, the visual took on more depth, and oh, that was something new entirely. There was probably an unhealthily narcissistic element to fantasising about a character you've played yourself, but one hand firmly wrapped around one’s cock could make many scenarios suddenly seem not only plausible, but also distractingly arousing. Even Mycroft Holmes placing the pocket watch on the bedside table and slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat.

It was surprisingly good, as fantasies went, even if it was slightly ridiculous. There was the obvious masturbatory thrill of it - imagining what it would be like to fuck yourself, in a way. Mark would know exactly where Mycroft would want to be touched, all the little tricks that would get him off; it would be a bit like wanking, only with a far wider range of movement. Handy, too - same height, same build. And the visual aspect would be appealing, like something out of a Robert Mapplethorpe photograph, or a particularly dirty Euro porn flick. Well, with fewer twinks.

But of course, he thought, fucking Mycroft would be different. Mycroft wouldn't be like Mark at all - he'd be able to pull off the dark mysteriousness and the sharp suits and the casual cruelty, and it would be absolutely genuine, not a funny little game you could turn off with a joke and a smile. Mycroft would undress, meticulously, until he was in his shirt sleeves, and then casually sit down on the bed and order Mark to take his cock into his mouth.

And that thought probably should not turn him on quite as desperately as it did. Yet here he was, biting his lip and teasing his nipples while his cock leaked streaks of pre-come over his belly, all because he was imagining giving head to a character he had written himself. A character he had played himself, even, whose face and body was his. It was probably morally objectionable - pathological narcissism and all that - and definitely quite deliciously filthy. He resisted touching his cock again, and instead pushed two fingers into his mouth.

It wasn't the same as sucking someone's prick, but the suggestion of it was there. (Mycroft would immediately realise that he liked being pushed a little bit. That he didn't mind it when his partner used his mouth just a little bit roughly, making breathing and not gagging a matter of concentration. That it turned him on fiercely, in fact. And, of course, Mycroft would be the type to enjoy it.) Mark grabbed his cock, drawing the foreskin back and rubbing the spit-slicked fingers of his other hand over the exposed head. The slow, slick friction was just shy of too light, and deliciously so. He'd probably touch himself like this while sucking Mycroft off like he was bloody gagging for the man's cock, like he couldn't get enough of him. He moaned at the thought.

But wouldn't it be thrilling if - what if, oh, what if Mycroft wouldn't let him get himself off like that. What if he'd mildly shake his head, order him to get up on the bed in that calm, velvety voice Mark had given him, and tie down his wrists with one of the ties Mark kept just a few feet away... He couldn't bear to act it out, to take his hands off himself long enough to spread himself out on the bed and pretend that the imaginary bonds were really there; the thought of it made the breath hitch in his throat and his toes curl, and he started to stroke himself, slowly and deliberately, while, in his head, Mycroft smiled down on him with a hint of cruelty.

He dragged the nails of his other hands across his chest, through the wiry hair there, and pinched a nipple, hard; Mycroft would have found out that particular weakness about him, too. He'd probably enjoy leaving Mark tied up, unable to touch himself, and just lick and pinch at his nipples until they were red and swollen, and so sensitive it was almost enough to get him off, almost. Call it an experiment. Mycroft might even get one of the toys in the box under the bed (he'd have deduced where it was, of course), slick it up, letting Mark see what he was doing, and then slowly, exquisitely slowly, push it up his arse, still refusing to touch his cock. Mark almost sobbed with the thought, pushing up into his fist, hips coming off the bed.

Or even better, what if - the mental image hit him straight in the solar plexus – what if he wasn't at the centre of attention at all. What if, instead, he was watching as Mycroft (naked now, still so different from Mark, still the same) had Ian on all fours, expertly fucking him while Mark sloppily kissed his open, gasping mouth, swallowing his moans. He wanted to lick the sweat from Ian’s neck, feel the harsh sounds he was making vibrating against his tongue, to pull him off while Mycroft was pounding into him. The angle would be awkward, but he’d have Ian panting into his ear, and Mycroft’s piercing gaze on him, pinning him, while he fucked Ian through his climax – Mark’s whole body tensed as he came in long, hot spurts over his chest and hands, almost yelling with the intensity of it. 

He slumped back gracelessly, wiping his hands on the fresh sheets before he caught himself. Never mind. It only added to the dirtiness of it, he thought, of getting off on your own characters like that. Your own characters fucking your husband while you watched. He laughed, stretching luxuriously on the bed and trying to get his breath back. Interesting. If nothing else, definitely interesting. He grinned. He supposed he could try the velvety voice when asking for the marmalade at breakfast tomorrow. Call it an experiment.


End file.
